And Thou! who from the orient day Return'st, with Hope's gay dreams elate, Falsely secure, and vainly gay, Unconscious of the stroke of Fate,

What waits thee?-not the approving smile
Of faithful love that chases care;
Not the fond glance, o'erpaying toil-
But cold and comfortless Despair.

Despair! I see the phantom rove,
By Cart's green banks, no longer bright,
And fiercely grasp the torch of Love,
And plunge it in sepulchral night.

Farewell, sweet Maiden! to thy tomb
My soul in sadness oft shall stray,
More dear to me the hallowed gloom,
Than Life's broad glare, or Fortune's day.

And oft, as Fancy points thy bier,
And mournful eyes thy lonely bed,
The secret sigh shall rise-the tear,
That shuns observance shall be shed.

Nor shall the thought of Thee depart,
Nor shall my soul regret resign,
Till memory perish-till this heart
Be cold and motionless as thine.

EDINBURGH.

LINES

On leaving Neyland, the residence of the Rev. W. Jones. (The Author returning to London.)

A GRATEFUL pilgrim's fond adieu,
Delightful vales remain with you!
For in life's brief, but weary way,
Ye interpos'd one dear delay.
And now I turn my ling'ring feet,
Once more a noisy world to meet ;
Yet oft with each regretted scene,
The fringed hills romantic screen;
The distant main; the clear blue sky,
To sooth afflicted Fancy's eye.
O thou, whose varied virtues blend,
"The guide, philosopher, and friend !"
How longs my youth, from passion free,
To dwell the tranquil shades with thee,
Secure in holy lore to find,

The sole nepenthe of the mind!

In vain a different scene I know
Demands me; and prepar'd I go,
Should Truth the prompted soul engage,
To tempt the rude polemic rage;
With Error's giant ranks to close,
And plunge amid conflicting foes.

Me so may some congenial soil
Receive from Day's oppressive toil,
To taste like thee with decent pride,
The christian calm of eventide.

ST. JOHN'S COLL. OXON.

T. P.

STANZAS

WRITTEN IN THE SPRING.

RETURNING Spring, with gladsome ray,
Adorns the earth, and smooths the deep;
All nature smiles serene and gay,

It smiles, but yet, alas, I weep!
But why, why flows th' unbidden tear?

When Fate such precious boons hath lent; The lives of those who life endear,

And tho' scarce competence-content.

Sure when no other bliss was mine,

But that which still kind Heav'n bestows; Yet then could Peace and Hope combine, To promise joy, and give repose: Then have I wander'd thro' the plain,

And bless'd each flower that met my view;
Thought Fancy's power would ever reign,
And Nature's charms be ever new.

I fondly thought where Virtue dwelt
That happy bosom knew no ill;

That those who scorn'd me Time would melt,
And those I lov'd be faultless still:

Enchanting dreams! kind was your art,
That bliss bestow'd without alloy;
Or if soft sadness claim'd a part,

"Twas sadness sweeter far than joy.

Ah! whence the change, that now alarms,
Fills this sad heart aud tearful eye;
And conquers the once powerful charms,
Of Youth, of Hope, of Novelty?
'Tis harsh Experience! fatal power,
That clouds the gay, illumin'd sky;
That darkens life's meridian hour;
And bids each fairy vision fly.

She paints the scene, how different far, From that which youthful Fancy drew; Shows Joy and Prudence oft at war,

Our woes increas'd, our comforts few; See in her train cold Foresight move, Shunning the rose to 'scape the thorn, And Prudence every fear approve, And Pity harden into scorn.

The glowing tints of Fancy fade,

Life's distant prospects charm no more. Alas! are all my hopes betray'd? Ah! what can now my bliss restore ? Relentless pow'r! at length be just, Thy better skill alone impart ; Give caution-but withhold distrust,

And guard-but harden not my heart.

THE TEAR.

TO MISS GEDDES.

I TALK'D of the woes of the days that are past-
Of afflictions and trials severe;

How the May-morn of life was with storm overcast,
How the blossoms of hope were all nipt by the blast:
And Beauty sat list'ning to hear.

Of hardships and dangers, and many a wrong,
And of toils that beset me so near,

Of Treachery's snare, and Ingratitude's tongue
I told; and 'twas pleasant the tale to prolong-
For Beauty repaid with a tear.

Ah! soft form of Beauty that gladdens the soul!
Is aught as thy sympathy dear-

When thy bright-beaming eyes with benignity roll,
When heaves thy full bosom at Pity's controul,
And thy roses are wash'd with a tear?

When dark roll the clouds that o'ershadow our doom, When toils, and when dangers appear,

When the storm-threat'ning waves all their terrors

assume,

Then the sun-beam of Hope that can break thro' the

gloom,

O Beauty! must shine thro' a tear.